


Don't Go Where I Can't Guide You

by EpiphanyBlue



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Building the Barricade, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Noncanonical Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EpiphanyBlue/pseuds/EpiphanyBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the golden trio is shattered before the barricade is even finished. Combeferre's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Go Where I Can't Guide You

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an AU graphic by courfeykitten on tumblr

   He was light and heat, spirit and passion. It had rained intermittently that morning, but nothing could quench him. He was marching beside me, grinning and laughing for excitement, having such fun and so overtly that I wondered if Enjolras would approve.  
    I approved.  
    He was brandishing his sword-cane in the air and singing these joyous and awful songs, making up slogans, and basically being joyous and awful Courfeyrac. I was watching him with an involuntary but welcome smile. I knew he would be prudent enough. He always had been the man who could be sober and jovial almost simultaneously. He was careful enough with his sword so as not to make anyone an unwilling target. He marched, he did not run, for fear of eventually exhausting himself or being cut off from the group, both valid concerns. The only things which he did not moderate were his astonishing gaiety and fervor.

   When the chorus of shots broke into the chorus of voices, his voice cut out and his expression changed. The two of us fell back for a split second, unsure of where the shots had come from. I realized quickly that this was an error. It did not take long for the crowd behind us to swallow us up. I tapped his shoulder and we started quickly to rejoin those in the lead. To do this we would either have to barrel through the crowd and risk the chaos of knocking people over or slip out and run alongside—but still very close to—the masses. We chose the latter.  
   Another burst of fire came from my right. I was shaken, but kept going, astonished that all the bullets thus far had actually missed me. Another shot, again close by. How was—?  
   I knew how I had escaped the last shot when I realized that my friend had left my peripheral vision. I turned just in time to see him with his right arm clutched to his side, losing his footing and crumpling face-first into the street.  
   “Courfeyrac!” I yelled out his name and ran for him.  
   He lay on the ground, curled into himself, gasping. I knelt down beside him and tried to make myself an obstacle. Hopefully people would notice the two of us, but if they didn’t, they were going to run into and even over me before laying foot on him.  
   I turned him on his back, tipped his head sideways, and surveyed the damage. A perfunctory glance registered a deep hole in his side and another through his arm. The side—possibly a punctured lung, likely a shattered rib. If a fragment of bone made its way into the bloodstream—certain danger. Upper arm—not very near a major artery, but still bleeding heavily. The side wound made me more anxious—it was more desperate and would be harder to bind. I untied my cravat and tore off a shirtsleeve, surprising myself at how easily the fabric seemed to come apart in my hand. As I pulled the sleeve off of my arm and wound it around Courfeyrac’s, I caught him staring at me. I stared back. There was terror in his eyes that froze me in place. I wanted to speak, to reassure him, but I was too startled to say a word. I did not notice Feuilly running towards us from the front of the crowd.

   Feuilly crouched down beside me, alerting me to his presence. “You weren’t…“ he began.  
   “Hold him,” I said.  
   Feuilly held Courfeyrac’s body in a reclining position as I bound it. “You weren’t up there. With the rest of them,” he said.  
   “Help me pick him up.” With Feuilly’s help, Courfeyrac was soon resting sideways in my arms. I wrapped them securely around him before standing up and addressing Feuilly. “Make sure I know where we’re going. Tell Enjolras if you see fit.” I felt something rub against my chest. It was Courfeyrac shaking his head.  
   I heard his voice, or a hollow and breathy version thereof. “Don’t distract…” He couldn’t finish the statement. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  
   “Shh, Courf,” I said. “Careful. Your lung.” His eyes opened wide. “Just be calm and rely on me.”  
   “Trust Combeferre. He won’t let you down,” said Feuilly, with a warm and confident smile.  
   “Neither will Feuilly,” Courfeyrac replied softly. He smiled, his familiar good-humored expression tinged with longing. “Follow him. He’ll worry.” ‘Him’ must have meant Enjolras. I nodded to Feuilly, who raced ahead to rejoin Enjolras and the others. I started back into the march, holding my injured friend close and silently begging my shoulders to hold up for as long as it would take to make it, safely, to our barricade.

   I strode through the crowd, repeating loud _pardonnez-mois_ , trying not to jostle the young man whose head rested limply between my hand and my chest. He was sweating, his hair was damp. The blood from his punctured arm had soaked through my white sleeve, which aside from the stain was only a shade or two paler than he was. His eyes were closed. I was getting nervous.  
   “Courfeyrac?” I called.  
   He opened his eyes, somewhat. “Combeferre.”  
   “Just keep letting me know you’re there. I’m sorry, I can’t let you sleep.” I almost felt guilty. He must have been exhausted. “Not yet. You have to rest, but you have to fight. Keep calm, but let me know—” I heard shots again, far away, but still disturbing. “Damn!”  
   “Calm, ‘Ferre?” He grinned.  
   “No.” I began thinking aloud. “I want to get off the main road. But then we’ll get cut off, we’ll get lost…” I fell silent. _…And I’ll never forgive myself if you fade out there._ Then I felt a cool hand on my cheek, and even through the tumult, a soft voice came through to me.  
   “I trust you.”  
   I looked down and saw that he meant it.  
   “Stay awake?” I asked him.  
   He nodded. _Yes_.  
   I searched for a gap. When none appeared, I elbowed my way through the crowd—and realized that my idea was useless. There was no way I could take a side street. Doubtless they would all be guarded. My best option—our best option—was to stay hidden in the middle of the crowd. As much as I wanted to find a shortcut, to get us both out of this noise and this rage, I had to stay. And I had to make sure Courfeyrac stayed alert. I heard a voice in the crowd, high-pitched but bold and clear, singing words that were unfamiliar or that I could not make out, but to tunes that I recognized. An idea came to me, and I smiled in spite of myself. I formed what I hoped was an expression of bold excitement and determination. I took a deep breath and began to sing, bold and passionate verses, at the top of my lungs. I started with the tune I had just heard. After that I launched into the Marseillaise. When I glanced down I could see a trace of that mad sparkle in Courfeyrac’s eyes as he mouthed the words along with me.

   Still, it was an agonizing march. Upon reaching the barricade site—Corinthe, the old Hucheloup place, as dutifully reported by Feuilly—my arms and back were sore and I was anxious to the point of lunacy. Courfeyrac had not spoken in what seemed like hours. He had had a terrible haggard look and I had told him that he could close his eyes if he would keep hold of some part of me, my arm, my shoulder, my neck. He had grabbed the collar of my shirt. A few moments later he had pulled it towards him with such abrupt force as to tear the shirt open and pop a button from my waistcoat. I shudder even now to think what rebellion inside of him could have made him do that. He had fidgeted and I had tried to keep him still, cursing my own ineffectuality without a case of tools, various ointments and poultices, or at least a table.  
   Now at least I would get a table. As soon as the front door of Corinthe came into view, I bolted down the street and inside. I found a long table in the back of the room, in partial shadow. I sat Courfeyrac on the edge and supported his back with one hand, while with the other I swept off some crumbs, a few short candles and three full bottles of wine, one of which landed directly on my foot and another of which shattered and splashed its contents over my shoes and trousers. At this noise Courfeyrac’s eyes opened.  
   “Combeferre.”  
   “Yes.”  
   “I dropped my sword.”  
   “Back there?”  
   “When the bullets hit me.”  
   “It’s fine. I have two pistols, and I had a musket, but I may have dropped that… or Feuilly took it. I hope he did.”  
   “Offering me your weapons! You should be taking mine.”  
   I felt the temperature of my blood falling. “Please don’t say that.”  
   I lifted him up for another moment and laid him on the table. Then I thought of the two pistols, remaining in my belt. I sighed and headed for the door to find Enjolras.  
   “Combeferre!”  
   I turned around. Enjolras was behind me, standing at the door to the cellar, watching as friends and strangers tramped up and down the stairs, gathering wine casks and carrying them outside. I felt a tug in my chest. I pulled out my pistols and approached Enjolras.  
   “Where do you want these?” I asked.  
   “We’ll distribute those later,” answered Enjolras. “Where’s Courfeyrac?” He smiled. My heart and stomach constricted. “He should be part of this cleverness.”  
   “Feuilly didn’t tell you.”  
   Enjolras’ lips tightened. His eyes became harrowed and fearsome. I turned, and he followed me to the table where Courfeyrac lay, apparently asleep and possibly cataleptic.  
   Enjolras drew a sharp but quiet breath.“The shots we heard at the funeral?”  
   I nodded.  
   “Move those small tables out of the way, bring him into the light.”  
   I obeyed. Enjolras looked up and shouted. “Joly!” There was a thumping sound as an excited pre-med bounded down the stairs to respond to Enjoras’ summons.  
   “Yes?” Joly responded. “…Oh, no.”  
   I had been following Enjolras’ orders, pushing chairs and tables out of a patch of decent daylight. When I heard Joly’s voice drop I could have kicked all of those chairs into the next suburb. Instead I walked over to the table and took the end nearest Courfeyrac’s head. Enjolras took the end at his feet, and together we lifted the table and its priceless freight into the space that I had cleared for them in the sunlight. Courfeyrac’s wounded right side faced away from the wall.

   Joly pulled up a chair and began to unravel the binds around Courfeyrac’s torso as I held him up, in order to assess the damage. At this sudden release, Courfeyrac’s head and shoulders twitched and his eyelids fluttered. I swallowed the urge to sob and laid him carefully back down on the table. Joly examined the side wound, shook his head, and began unwrapping the arm. Enjolras had stepped between the table and the wall. He stood with a sublime and mournful gaze, right arm extended, weaving strong but delicate fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair. Joly inspected Courfeyrac’s arm, shook his head again, stood up, and dashed outside. He came back a moment later with Bossuet. Feuilly followed just behind them, but strode across the room before them to stand at the table beside Enjolras.  
   “Doux seigneur,” I heard Bossuet whisper. He stumbled forward and leaned on the table. The table wobbled. I stiffened. Enjolras shot Bossuet a momentary glare. Then we were all distracted by a commotion coming from upstairs.  
   “Comrades, we will overthrow the government, just as sure as there are fifteen acids intermediate between margaric acid and formic acid, which I don’t care a fig about.”  
   What was he going on about? It was a futile question. We all could recognize Grantaire’s voice, a hideously ill-timed disturbance. He laughed and bellowed his way down the stairs, to Enjolras’ visibly mounting frustration. Feuilly placed a hand on Enjolras' arm in an attempt to moderate him. Enjolras was quiet, but he held himself in a way that usually meant he had been subject to some great offense. In this state he could be very dangerous. He appeared ready to bite off a limb.  
    Grantaire was jovial, brash, and oblivious. “Messieurs, my father always detested me, because I never understood mathematics. I only understand love and liberty. I am Grantaire, a good boy! Never having had any money, I never got used to it, and so I never feel the need of it. But if I had been rich, there would be no more poor!”  
   Then he caught sight of the five of us, and of our dear young friend laid out on the table.  
   "Grantaire!” Enjolras growled.  
   It was too late. Grantaire had already stopped. He stared at us with wide and haunted eyes, full of inexpressible hatred. I was shamed, astonished, riveted. I felt an explosion coming. But Grantaire merely raised one trembling arm, condemning us all with a forefinger.  
   “Look at that,” he said, his voice low. “Look what’s already happened! What’s already done! All of you have—all of you are! I—I—” He stepped back, not taking his eyes from us. He spun around and made his way staggering to a table, where he fell forward, burying his head in his arms. His body shook for a moment, then ceased. He was asleep.

   I turned back towards the table and gasped.  
   Courfeyrac was awake and gazing at Enjolras, who gazed back and continued to stroke Courfeyrac's head.  
   “What are you doing?” Courfeyrac’s voice was thin and dry, but he grinned merrily. “You have a barricade to put up.”  
   Enjolras’ gaze was the softest I had ever seen. “I’m doing for you what I wish I could do for everyone,” he said. "Though I know I won’t be able to.”  
   Courfeyrac’s smile faded. His visage became forlorn. “Enjolras—everyone,” he stammered. “I’m sor—“  
   “Don’t be sorry,” Enjolras interrupted. “Courfeyrac, our spirit! Courfeyrac, our friend! You are brave and valiant, what’s more, you are gracious and you are good. You are our spirit. We honor you. Myself, Combeferre, everyone.”  
   “Where is...?”  
   Enjolras looked up and nodded towards me. He stepped back and gratefully clasped Feuilly's hand.  
   Courfeyrac turned his head and stretched out a feeble hand. “Combeferre,” he whispered.  
   Bossuet, perceptive, brought me a chair. I sat down upon it, taking Courfeyrac’s clammy hand in both of mine and leaning forward so that my eyes were level with his.  
   “Thank you,” Courfeyrac said, and he smiled.  
   In that smile I saw him again. The man who choreographed his arguments, who laughed at the philosophes, who befriended alike republicans and odd Bonapartists, who would offer his purse, his mattress, his life without question. Who set charters ablaze, who just this morning had sung through the streets and laughed to drown out cannon—That smile, that spirit, that brilliant man, my friend. I saw him, and he shone. I moved my chair closer and held his hand to my collarbone. My friend, Courfeyrac, who above all made me so devastatingly happy. I brought his pale hand to my mouth and kissed it, reverent, praying that he would not see the tears in either eye that I could no longer suppress.  
   “If I make it out,” I said, “I’ll be nice to that Bonapartist friend of yours.”  
   Courfeyrac laughed silently. The sparks in his eyes arose once more.  
   I found myself watching closely as they dimmed.  
   He slipped away then, with his hand between both of mine and a smile still on his round face.  
   I kissed his hand again and laid it on the table. I turned my eyes to heaven and offered up a silent, wishful blessing while Enjolras reached across the table and tenderly closed Courfeyrac’s eyes. I stood up and wandered absently out of the café.

   The hubbub of barricade construction was still going on. I stared at the sky. It was otherworldly. How could any of this be happening? How could we build this, how could we fight, without our center—as Enjolras had said, our spirit? And I myself, could ever I have dreamt of such an obscenity?  
   I had not lost my wits. I knew in the midst of my distress that the universe held for no man, that an insurrection could not be called off because one of its combatants was missing. Though Courfeyrac was no mere combatant. He was a leader. He was no Enjolras, was by no means the most militaristic, but he had always seemed so essential. I loosened the cap on my sensations and recollections, and immediately recoiled.  
   He _was_ essential. And the bullets he had taken had been headed straight for me.  
   In my haze I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Enjolras standing beside me. Perhaps one less familiar with his face would not have seen it, but I could tell that his eyes were rimmed in red—a bit more so than usual.  
   I drew the arm in my remaining sleeve across my face. Enjolras raised his eyebrows. He seemed to register for the first time my advanced state of disarray. I looked away. He looked at me and spoke softly.  
   “You… carried him? All the way here?”  
   I nodded.  
   “Combeferre,” he breathed. “How do you do it?”  
   His voice was full of profound respect, even admiration. I could not stand it. “I had to do it,” I seethed. “What else could I do, Enjolras? And not only because he is my friend—do you know? Oh, no one knows. No one knows. He didn’t even see it! Perhaps no one else could see. But I saw, and I know. It’s simple: geometry, physics, trajectory! Those bullets came from my right, he happened to be on my right—right there—” I swung out my arm, indicating the space. “Is that good? Or were those bullets that went through him supposed to go through me! What if, Enjolras, and what then!” Our eyes met, as I finished in a pleading whisper: “And what now?”  
   Through this Enjolras had remained still, seemingly impassive. Yet I knew that his manner was forced through circumstance. He was our leader. Amidst the hubbub of our preparations for war, he had to remain poised. Despite this, he did not hesitate to take my hand as my sorrow, guilt and anger, commingled in hours of anxiety, exploded into hot tears and caused my legs to crumple beneath the weight of my own body. I sensed him kneeling beside me, giving me a long look.  
   Then he surprised me. He wrapped both of his arms around me and drew me close, so that my inevitable tears stained his lapel. I felt his embrace tighten, and-very briefly- a gentle, steady hand stroked my hair just as it had Courfeyrac’s. I did not fail to notice two warm raindrops splashing onto my shoulder, or a third rolling down my neck. We stayed there, in the dirt by the front wall of Corinthe, until I felt I could once again breathe normally. Then the two of us pulled apart. I stood up and brushed the dust from my trousers. Enjolras followed suit. Then he faced me, with a sincere and questioning look.  
   “It’s not my fault, is it?” I asked.  
   “Not yours. Not anyone’s. It will be hard enough to carry on without him, without you believing something like that.”  
   I lowered my eyes. “Hard enough that I couldn’t save him”  
   “No!” Enjolras placed his hand on my shoulder. “Just believe him,” he said.  
   “Courfeyrac?”  
   “His last words.”  
   For a moment we both were silent, eyes on the ground or on each other’s shoes. Then Enjolras gently shook my shoulder. I looked up to meet his clear, honest gaze.  
   “Combeferre,” Enjolras repeated, in earnest. “Thank you.”


End file.
